


The Dragon Prince

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Arranged Marriage, Darker Jon, Elia Martell Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lyanna Stark still dies in childbirth, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Prince Jon Targaryen, Rhaegar Targaryen Lives, Targaryen Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Sansa always knew she would be Queen someday. King Rhaegar would ride into Winterfell with his son, mending a rift decades old, and Sansa's children would rule from the Wall to the mountains of Dorne.Winter dawns and Rhaegar arrives to offer his son.The only problem is... it's the wrong one.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 95
Kudos: 1154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some parts/dialogue inspired by Cosimo and Contessina again (I need to stop). Set during a world where Rhaegar and his children live, he doesn't annul his marriage with Elia (or she forgives him, take your pick), Lyanna still dies in childbirth but Jon is raised as a Targaryen at court.

  
Sansa tries to settle her racing heart as King Rhaegar Targaryen leads his family into Winterfell.

She feels Robb bristle beside her as he straightens his back. His furs are pulled impeccably around his shoulders, the winter sun glinting off the direwolf pin on his chest, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. He's as nervous as she is, she realises, but he's the future Lord of Winterfell and displays of weakness are not an option.

As her mother snaps at Bran, Rickon and Arya, trying to get them under control, and Robb clears his throat and shuffles on his feet again, Sansa feels a strange bolt of resentment spark through her. He has nothing to worry about, no reason to despair.

He's not the one who's about to be ripped from his home, the one who's about to meet a betrothed they never wanted.

"Your father has promised you to the Prince of Dragonstone," Catelyn Stark had told her the week before, her voice guarded for she knew how her stubborn daughter would react, "apparently Rhaegar will decide another for Aegon, and as Lyanna was your father's sister, blood of his blood, the King believes Jon to be a better match to join our houses."

Sansa had fought every childish urge she had - to scream, to protest, to cry. Since she was a little girl, she had dreamt of marrying Aegon, seduced by the stories of the beauty he had inherited from his father, his deep indigo eyes and silver-blond hair. They said he loved to read, that he took after Rhaegar in many respects, blood of old Valyria, of the dragons and the gods.

As a child, Sansa fancied herself the second wolf to fall for a dragon.

Only this time, the wolf would live.

The people don't sing songs about Jon Targaryen. Although legitimised and said to be Rhaegar's favourite, the only thing left of the woman who died bringing him into the world, much of the Seven Kingdoms remain suspicious of him.

Thousands died because Rhaegar chose Lyanna Stark, and the wound still feels fresh.

As Rhaegar dismounts his horse, extending a hand to Elia Martell by his side, Sansa grits her teeth and bears it.

She's a Stark of Winterfell, made of ice, and she will do as duty commands.

"Your Grace," Ned is the first to greet the King, smoothly dipping his head, "Winterfell is yours."

Rhaegar smiles, looking every inch the prince from the songs, violet eyed and magnificent. Seeing them in the flesh for the first time, his wife by his side, Sansa wonders how he ever chose her aunt. Father always said Lyanna was pretty, spoke of raven hair and her Stark grey eyes, but Elia is a true Dornish beauty.

Sansa thinks again about her aunt, how father also spoke of her fire, of the wolfsblood that ran too hot and of the iron underneath. She thinks perhaps this is what enamoured the King.

Not that it matters now.

Lyanna is gone. Rhaegar started a war for her, and she died anyway. To avoid further conflict with Dorne, Rhaegar had been forced to return to his wounded wife, to start rebuilding the trust between them and their children. The war is over, and behind the handsome Aegon and stunning Rhaenys, stands the only evidence that it ever happened.

Jon Targaryen waits with his hands clasped behind his back, a blank expression on his face. Though the sight of him makes her want to cry, this man she doesn't want, Sansa will admit he's handsome in his own right.

He doesn't look like the golden princes of her dreams, nothing of his silver-haired father in him. He's all Lyanna. In-fact, with his raven curls half pulled back with a leather band and a dark beard framing his jaw, he almost resembles her father, a strong Northern man.

As Rhaegar clasps Robb on the shoulder, moving down the line of Starks, Sansa doesn't miss how Jon's cold eyes don't leave her, intense and unyielding. She fights the shudder that threatens to pass through her.

"Take me to the crypts, Ned," Rhaegar says quietly, "I want to see her."

Elia's smile falters only slightly before her mask slips back on. As she chats to Arya, she pretends not to hear, not to notice, as the men walk past her to pay tribute to a ghost.

Her daughter's jaw clenches in unmistakable anger as Aegon places a telling hand on her elbow, shooting her a warning look. Rhaenys calms but fury etches her Dornish features as the courtyard fills with amiable chatter.

As Elia approaches her, Sansa smiles and curtsies like Septa Mordane taught her.

All the while, she feels the bite of Jon Targaryen's eyes on her, an ice that burns.

Sansa takes a deep breath as she follows her father into the dining hall, bathed in warmth from the flickering candles.

The Northerners watch the Targaryens closely, wary of the pardon Rhaegar awarded Ned, awarded _them_ , because of the love he bore his sister.

As they walk past, Sansa sees Arya flick her spoon at Bran, squealing with laughter as potatoes and gravy land on his cheek with a splash. Bran laughs too, and even Elia gives a soft smile, but Catelyn scowls, shooting daggers at Robb. Her brother gets the message and rolls his eyes with a sigh, picking up an outraged Arya under her arms and dragging her from the hall.

Sansa keeps walking, determined not to be distracted. Arya is as wild as Lyanna was said to be, a touch of the wolfsblood in her.

 _Perhaps she should be the one to be betrothed to Jon Targaryen,_ she thinks miserably.

If he's anything like his father, he's sure to want someone like her for a wife, not the prim and practiced lady Sansa was raised to be.

Sansa should be Aegon's, she thinks, as she notices him speaking to his sister at the high table. She watches her friend Jeyne Poole and a dozen other Northern girls moon over him and her gut flares with jealousy.

She's standing before her betrothed before she even realises it, their fathers by their sides.

"Your Grace," Ned greets Rhaegar again in that gruff Northern brogue, "my Prince. Allow me to present my daughter, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Jon's hands are clasped behind his back again and his head tips to the side as his dark eyes sweep over her. She feels her cheeks flame under his scrutiny, embarrassment tinged with anger at being surveyed as though she were nothing more than a broodmare.

But then his eyes are snapping to hers and the breath catches in her throat.

"My lady," he gives a curt nod, his voice smooth and lower than his brother's and father's.

She nods back, entwining her fingers and wringing her own hands in-front of her.

"My son is delighted to meet you," Rhaegar coos when Jon doesn't say anything else. Sansa watches her betrothed's jaw tick as he stares at a spot just above her right shoulder, "perhaps you should get to know each other better."

He not so subtly pushes Jon towards her with a hand on the small of his back. Sansa hears his grunt as he steps forward, his jaw clenching again. He holds a reluctant hand out to her, his gaze not quite meeting hers. Her eyes dart to her father and Ned gives her a pointed nod. Incensed and somewhat humiliated, she grinds her teeth and takes Jon's arm.

As they walk, circling the Great Hall, Sansa keeps her gaze straight ahead.

"Are you well, my Prince?" she asks when she's sure the silence will drive her mad.

His mouth twitches under his beard but there's little humour in the sound he makes.

"You may call me Jon if we are to be married."

His tone is gruff, smooth but lined with something akin to irritation, and Sansa's anger flares again.

"Thank you, Jon," she says through gritted teeth and the name feels strange on her tongue, "you have not answered my question."

The corner of his mouth definitely quirks this time.

As they pass the high table, she feels Rhaenys Targaryen's cold eyes burn a hole in her back.

"I am fine," he answers shortly and Sansa bristles at his lack of decorum.

A man should ask how the lady is in return, especially if the lady is his _betrothed_ , and he should pay her a compliment. Bastards should never comment on a lady's beauty... but he is not a bastard, she fights to remind herself. Rhaegar legitimised him, raised him at court. He's as much a Targaryen as Aegon. _Aegon_ would have complimented her. He would have crooned about the beauty of her smile, or her bright eyes of Tully blue, or the fire in her hair.

This isn't how her life was supposed to go.

"And the North?" she tries again, "is it what you expected?"

"I am unused to the cold," he says, "dragons thrive in the heat."

"But you are not a dragon," it's out of her mouth before she realises it. As his gaze snaps to hers, his eyes darkening dangerously, she wishes she could take it back.

"Excuse me?"

"At least not in full," she tries to backtrack, her gaze flitting over his dark hair and eyes, "you have the North in you – and you have the Stark look."

He stares at her for a beat before he drags his eyes back to the hall and they carry on walking.

"I have never met a Stark of any consequence to me."

Sansa tries not to let the words sting and foolishly, inexplicably, she wants to hurt him in return.

"You have not visited your mother?" she says innocently and feels the muscles of his arm tense under hers, "your father spent nigh on an hour in the crypts."

"My father was reckless," he says brusquely, bitterly, "as was my mother. Elia didn't deserve what they did, nor did the thousands of others who died for their love. Now here I am, a Targaryen come to steal another daughter of Winterfell."

His tone is almost teasing then, almost mocking, and Sansa narrows her eyes. Stealing makes it sound romantic. However one looks at it, whether they agree with his assessment of his parents, there's no denying that Rhaegar loved his lady Lyanna.

Jon doesn't love her.

He doesn't even seem to _like_ her – and the feeling is mutual.

"You cannot steal that which is freely given."

He quirks a brow, eyes shining slightly darker.

"Freely given, is it?"

"I agreed to this union, didn't I?" she says scathingly, forgetting every lesson on queenly shyness and grace that Septa Mordane ever taught her.

"You did," he concedes, "but you don't want it."

Anger flares in her gut again at how _impossible_ he is, how insufferable.

"How do you know?"

"I've seen the lovesick way you stare at my brother," he tips a brow to Aegon who's currently staring at them, amused, over the rim of his cup, "you dream of a golden prince."

Embarrassed, Sansa feels her cheeks blossom into heat.

"You do not dream of me either," she bites back pointedly.

"I do not."

"Then why agree to it?"

He clicks his tongue, tipping his head to the side. "I could ask you the same."

The answer to this one is easy and Sansa lets out a bitter laugh.

"I agreed to it for my family, of course."

Judging by the dark look that sweeps over his brooding features, he doesn't like this answer. With a quick glance to their surroundings, he curls his warm hand around the crook of her elbow. Before she can register what's happening, she catches a glimpse of her father rising from his seat, expressions of concern fleeting over his and Rhaegar's features, before Jon's dragging her around the corner and pushing her against the wall with his hands curled around the tops of her arms.

She hits the stone wall with a soft gasp, his stormy eyes bearing into hers.

As the candles lining the hallway flicker, bathing his handsome face in soft light, a strange heat flares under her skin.

When he speaks, his tone is dangerous, low and self-assured.

"From the moment we are married, you will be a Targaryen. You will not betray me as your father betrayed mine. You will not act as a spy for the Starks or pine after Aegon. You will be my wife, and you will be loyal to me, and _only_ to me. Do you understand?"

The strength in his voice, the dark glint to his eyes, has her squeezing her thighs together to relieve an inexplicable ache. Even through the material of her dress, his touch burns, and she wants to speak, but she just _can't_.

Then she doesn't have to, because his pupils are dilating, and he's crashing his mouth to hers.

She gasps against his unyielding kiss, arching her back against the wall. His hands remain on the tops of her arms, anchoring her to him, and he tastes of wine from the feast and smoke and something sweeter. His mouth doesn't move as they breathe through their noses, and he makes no effort to deepen the kiss, to swipe his tongue against hers. Before she knows it, it's over and his lips are gone.

Her dazed eyes flutter open and she sees him staring down at her.

A muscle near his ear ticks as he clenches his jaw and if she didn't know any better, she'd swear he looks rattled too. He takes a step back, distancing himself from her, and there's a strange ache where his hands once were.

He lifts his chin slightly, brow arched and jaw set. He blinks, expression back to unreadable, and then he's gone, returned to the feast.

Sansa leans, _falls_ , back against the wall, placing a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

Her first kiss.

She can't begin to sort through the emotions coursing through her veins, but she does know one thing.

She didn't think of Aegon once.

She requests that they marry in the godswood, one last memory of home before she's shipped off to Dragonstone.

Jon had obliged with a curt nod, a quirk to his brow, and the day arrives before Sansa knows it.

Ned kisses her on the forehead before he takes her arm, beginning the long walk.

There's a silver dragon pin on Jon's chest and his sword hangs from his hip and the sight of him waiting for her causes a strange warmth to erupt in her chest. He looks beautiful - not the prince she dreamed of, but a prince all the same - and the warmth only intensifies when he drapes a cloak of Targaryen colours over her shoulders, placing her under his protection.

Sheltered under the heavy branches of the weirwood tree, they speak their vows.

_"I am his and he is mine."_

_"I am hers and she is mine."_

It feels like she doesn't release the breath she's holding until they're in the Great Hall, their guests drinking and laughing and cheering around them.

He's silent as he sits beside her, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table while the other curls around his cup of Arbour Gold. He lifts it to his mouth and takes a sip. Sansa watches him lick his top lip and darts her gaze away, trying not to remember how those lips felt against hers.

Her chest feels too tight when she realises she won't have to remember soon enough. It's their wedding night and the bedding ceremony is as customary in Kings Landing as it is in Winterfell.

When she looks back to him, his jaw is always clenched, his eyes dull, and he smiles and nods his head when duty demands.

Elia is stunning as she walks towards them, glittering in a golden Dornish dress, and she extends her hand to Jon.

"Congratulations," she says to them both, a warm smile curling her lips. Sansa nods politely and is surprised to see a genuine smile light up Jon's face as he takes his father's wife's hand.

"Excuse me," he gives Sansa a short nod, following Elia to the floor, where drunk guests cheer and dance.

Sansa remembers what she'd overheard mere days before.

"I will not punish a son for his father's sins," Elia's melodic voice had flowed through the solar door where she sat discussing matters with Catelyn Stark, "I loved Rhaegar from the moment I met him, I love him still. I will not pretend that his betrayal didn't sting, but Jon did not ask for this. There is good in him, Catelyn, and I believe your daughter will be good _for_ him."

"You are a better woman than I," Catelyn's awed voice had returned and Sansa could picture the way she shook her head, "had my husband brought home another woman's son… I'm not sure I would have reacted so gracefully."

As she watches her new husband twirl the Dornish woman around in a dance, Sansa wonders at Elia's strength, her grace and her sense of forgiveness.

It's a trait that clearly didn't extend to her daughter and some of Rhaenys' wine sloshes from the edge of her cup as she plants herself down in Jon's chair.

Sansa quirks a brow, her hands clasped in her lap, as she waits for the brunette to speak.

"You're a perfect little lady, aren't you?" she says eventually, and it doesn't sound like a compliment.

"I'm not a Princess," Sansa replies, her voice polite but her point very clear. Only by marriage, not by birthright like her. 

"No, but you could have been a Queen," Rhaenys says, leaning back in the chair and her voice is slightly slurred, "had you got what you wanted."

Sansa turns her face back to the crowd, trying to keep her expression neutral.

"And what is it that I want?"

"Aegon, of course," the girl replies quickly, easily, and Sansa bristles in her seat, "you wanted the heir, you got the spare."

Sansa sighs, briefly closing her eyes. When she opens them, she notices how Jon watches them from the corner of his eye, his attention split between them and Elia.

"I will be a good wife to your brother."

"My _brother_ ," Rhaenys repeats with a sarcastic scoff and then laughs like she's in on a secret she's not sharing, "I see how my brother looks at you, all cold and detached. Give him time. He's still upset from a failed affair in Kings Landing."

This catches Sansa's attention and she snaps her gaze to hers, not liking the smug smile that curls the girl's lips.

"An affair?" she repeats, the word tasting like poison on her tongue, and Jon's still watching them, "was he in love?"

"Completely," Rhaenys says bluntly, "but she was a whore… and he is a prince. Our father saw to it that she was well paid and shipped off to Pentos. Jon was furious, of course, but it was for his own good. Here he is, after-all… with you. The perfect match."

Her voice is bordering on cruel now, as she implies for her a life of second best, mated like cattle for her name and unable to live up to the memory of a woman she's never met.

Her discomfort must show on her face because Rhaenys is speaking again.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she drawls, sitting forward in the chair and not sounding apologetic in the slightest, "did you think he was a virgin?"

Sansa feels her cheeks flare into heat at that.

"I had not given it any thought at all."

"Of course not," Rhaenys says dully, her brown eyes flickering from Sansa to her brother and back again, "well, you look a bit like her at least. She had red hair like yours… kissed by fire, he said. Perhaps he'll use that line on you tonight."

She understands that Rhaenys is bitter, that her father hurt her mother beyond repair and that Jon is a walking, talking reminder – but none of that is Sansa's fault.

She is not Lyanna. Jon is not Rhaegar.

Suddenly finding the craftsmanship of the wooden table very fascinating, she doesn't notice that Jon is in-front of her until he's speaking in a low, commanding tone.

"I do hope you're not bothering my wife, Rhaenys."

The warning behind his words is clear and hearing him call her _wife_ causes a strange stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Rhaenys smirks, resentful and bitter and more than a little drunk.

"Of course not, baby brother," she stands, straightening the invisible creases in her dress. Behind Jon, Sansa can see Elia now wrapped up in her husband's arms, a concerned expression on Rhaegar's handsome face. Not for the first time, Sansa wonders about the strained relationship between her new husband and his half-sister.

"Congratulations again," she drawls, tipping her cup, before she moves to join her other brother, a look of disapproval on Aegon's face.

Jon watches her leave, eyes slightly narrowed. He walks around the table, pausing in-front of Sansa. As she lifts her eyes to his, the rest of the lords and ladies happily dancing in the hall seem to evaporate. He looks so handsome, dressed in the strong Targaryen colours of red and black – fire and blood – and his dark hair is half tied back again. Her hands itch with the strange impulse to pull the tie out, to feel his curls between her fingers.

"Why are you sitting here so sullen?" he asks, tipping his head to the side, "did all your lessons on how to be a perfect, proper lady not include dancing?"

She narrows her eyes, feeling her jaw clench.

"Yes," she practically hisses, "they did."

He clicks his tongue, extending his hand.

"Dance with me, then."

It's not a command, but his icy eyes remain focused on her and his brow arches, almost like he's daring her to object.

Sansa swallows, hesitating for only a moment before she places her hand in his, almost drawing back in fright at the spark she feels at the contact. He pulls her up and she acquiesces, drawn to him like a dark magnet. She lets him lead her to the centre of the room, his smile minute but triumphant.

As the band strikes up a slow, seductive tune and the lords and ladies part for them, he snakes an arm around her waist. She feels her cheeks burst into heat as he pulls her close to his body.

"Come now, Sansa," he tuts as she stands still as stone, her arms tethered to her side. She realises it's the first time he's said her name, and his tongue wraps around it sinfully, "have you never danced before?"

She swallows, frozen in place by the intensity of his grey eyes.

He takes her wrists, slowly lifting her arms to twine them around his neck. She is led by him, as they move to the beat, and she can feel the heat of everyone's gaze on her.

"Not with boys," _men,_ she corrects, because Jon is certainly not a boy, "it is not appropriate."

Her confession doesn't seem to surprise him. He just continues to move them, hands sparking heat even through the heavy material of her wedding dress. The song switches but he shows no sign of letting her go.

"What about the wedding feasts, the name-days, the other festivities as you grew up?" he teases, one brow arched, "no handsy Northern boys trying their luck?"

She quirks her own brow then, wondering what he's getting at.

"There's been no-one else. Only you," her hands tremble from where they lay behind his neck but she forces them to stop; she can feel the silk of his hair threading through her fingers and when it comes to her frayed nerves, that isn't helping the situation.

"Can you say the same?" she continues with a quirked brow, because she knows he can't.

His eyes narrow slightly, his arms tightening around her waist. She can feel the entire length of his body pressed against hers, heat emanating from under expensive leather and wool. He's all marble, strong and smooth, and she's confused by the heat pooling in the pit of her belly.

He doesn't answer, averting his gaze instead. She wonders whether he can smell the terror pounding through her veins, whether he can hear the pulsing of her blood and how her heart stutters against her ribcage. More than that, she hopes he can't sense the confusing slickness between her legs, the evidence of just how much she _wants_ him hitting her with the force of the storms in winter.

He lifts his right hand, gently taking a strand of her red hair and twirling it around his finger. She hopes he's not thinking about his woman back in Kings Landing, then she forces herself not to imagine that. Her lips quiver and she can feel her breath shallow in her chest.

"You do not have to be afraid of me," he says, reading her mind, "I won't allow a bedding ceremony."

This surprises her, her eyes darting to his where she finds no sign of insincerity.

"Really?"

"Really," he murmurs, "you never have to be afraid again. You're a dragon now."

Sansa's not so sure.

 _Fire cannot burn a dragon –_ and yet she's burning.

Sansa waits for her new husband in her chambers, sending her handmaidens away with a trembling smile.

She paces the floor, the stone cold under her bare feet, settling in-front of the roaring fire. She hears his knock just as she's warming her hands before the flame, and her stomach clenches in anticipation.

"Come in," she says once, too quietly, before clearing her throat and trying again.

She feels him before she sees him, a commanding presence that has goosebumps rising to the surface of her skin. As he shuts the door behind him with a click, she slowly turns around.

It's silent for a moment, the atmosphere stretching unbearably tense between them, and she swears the air _crackles._ His steel grey eyes regard her unapologetically, starting with her loose auburn curls, sweeping across collarbones exposed by her sheer nightshift, down her milky thighs to her delicate feet.

He's more dressed than she is, without his sword but still in his Targaryen colours, and her fingers twitch at her sides.

He takes a step towards her, testing the waters. She forces herself to stand tall, trying to calm the storm inside her.

Jon Targaryen smells weakness like blood in the water.

She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction, wants to come across unaffected.

But then he's closing the gap between them and entwining their fingers and pointing out, "you're trembling."

She wrenches her hand back, embarrassment flooding her cheeks.

"I'm allowed to be nervous," she insists in a stubborn whisper, averting her gaze.

"I never said you weren't."

His voice is cool, calm and even, and it only serves to stoke her rage.

She forces herself to lift her chin, to look at him. She stares him down with fierce eyes, wondering if she has a choice. He's the Prince of Dragonstone and he'll need an heir. He won't be satisfied with a little bird for a wife, one who flinches when he touches her.

But _then_ … he had taken her hands and told her not to be afraid. He implied their marriage will be one of loyalty, that she will be his wife in more than just name and he had refused a bedding ceremony because he knew it would hurt her.

 _There's good in him,_ Elia's voice echoes in her mind.

"If we do this…" Sansa starts quietly, choosing to believe the power is in her hands, "…you must be with _me._ You cannot think of her."

He blanches at that, a look of genuine surprise flickering over his fine features.

"Who?" he asks, arching a brow.

It's out of her mouth before she can stop it.

"Your Kings Landing girl."

His expression hardens almost immediately, fire flashing through his already black eyes. In that moment, she's almost afraid of him.

"Who told you about that?" he asks though she suspects he knows.

His brows are pulled together and there's a tick to his jaw and she wonders if she should lie.

"Your sister," she doesn't lie and then, because she's a glutton for punishment, she adds, "do you love her?"

His jaw clenches even tighter and he turns away from her.

"You understood the circumstances of this marriage-"

"Still, I deserve to know," she interrupts him, not wanting to hear _again_ how this isn't a love match, how he's _known_ love and she hasn't and if he had his way, he wouldn't be here. She doesn't want to rub salt into the wound.

He turns around and there's a storm brewing behind his eyes.

"It's done, Sansa," he says simply and it still feels strange, foreign, to hear her name on his tongue, "she's gone."

It's not enough and Sansa finds herself pushing for more.

"Rhaenys said I look like her."

"Gods," Jon chokes out, turning from her again and pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Emboldened by this display of weakness, this chip in his cold and impenetrable armour, she takes a step towards him.

"Well, do I?"

He turns around again, looking wild and incensed and _gods help her,_ more attractive than he deserves.

She's drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

"No," he practically growls, "you're far more beautiful."

Strangely, it doesn't feel like a compliment.

He says it so unemotionally, so matter of fact, it feels like he's merely pointing out the prim and proper lady she's been raised to be. Rhaenys says his woman in Kings Landing was a whore and Sansa's the furthest thing from it. Perhaps she was wild and free, desirable to a man like him in a way Sansa isn't, with all her practiced grace and decorum.

"Well," she sniffs, trying to put on a brave face, "I've changed my mind. Perhaps I do not care who you think about. I understand the _circumstances of this marriage._ It's nothing more than a business transaction."

"Really?" he quirks a brow and his voice is back to low and gruff.

She squeezes her thighs together.

"Really," she lifts her chin, straightens her back, "like striking up a military alliance."

He takes a step towards her, a game of push and pull, who will bend, who will break first.

"Oh, there'll be a battle, that's for sure," he murmurs, lifting his left hand to grab the back of her neck. His hands are gentle but commanding as he entwines his fingers in her loose hair and tugs slightly. She bites back her gasp as he exposes her long neck, his dark eyes sweeping across the flushed skin.

The pad of his thumb strokes across her bottom lip, gently pulling it from her teeth. He keeps it there, softly rubbing, wetting it, and heat flares between Sansa's legs again.

He reads her body language, his eyes flickering, and then his mouth is curving into a devastating smirk.

"Like striking up a military alliance," he repeats huskily, calling her bluff, because their bodies are reacting to each other and he _knows_ it.

Nothing about this is simple.

The atmosphere sears between them as his thumb traces her top lip and back to her bottom. Her eyes flicker slightly, a lust she's never felt before snapping at her heels, and she acts on instinct.

She doesn't break heated eye contact as she opens her mouth slightly and he slips his thumb inside. It stays there for a moment, caught between her teeth, before she flicks her tongue against the pad.

She _knows_ she doesn't imagine the way his eyes darken, pupils blown to black. He's as affected as she is, she realises with a sense of triumph, and she opens wider so her mouth can engulf the digit to the first knuckle. This time, she closes her lips around it, giving it a small but unmistakable suck.

His eyes flicker to her mouth and he lets out a tiny groan. The sound sparks straight to her cunt, now slippery wet and aching, and she releases the digit with an audible pop.

"Well," she whispers and hears her own voice dark and husky, "what are you waiting for?"

He tips his head at that, wet thumb now rubbing softly, casually, on the side of her chin.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking.”

“Why do you do that?” she starts, one eyebrow arched, “you seem determined to mock my innocence. Most men would not see it as a burden to have a maiden for a wife.”

He smirks at that, an easy tip of his generous mouth.

“I am not most men,” he begins; she’s starting to get that, “but I do not find your innocence a burden… quite the opposite.”

This piques her interest and she finds herself leaning into his hand, his touch, before she comes to her senses.

“The opposite?”

His hand dances down her neck until his warm fingers are splaying over the hollow of her throat.

“I fear I’d ruin you,” he says huskily, “and I fear how I _don’t_ fear that, at all.”

She fights back a shudder at his words, full of dark intent.

“Perhaps I’m not so breakable,” she tries, but she’s leaning into his touch, swaying as though pulled by a black magnet.

He smirks again, something dangerous.

“You are so very stubborn.”

There’s something in his eyes, something more profound and more meaningful and more _real,_ dancing behind the thinly veiled amusement and seduction. Sansa can’t quite get to it, resigned to some world in-between, but she hazards a guess.

“I think you like my stubbornness,” _my fire,_ she thinks, “I think you like the way I look at you.”

He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t deny it either, and then he’s dragging her to him. His left arm wraps around her waist as his right hand remains anchored over her heart, feeling the uneven stutter of her heartbeat.

“Have you ever been kissed, Sansa?”

_Sansa._

It’s almost a crime – sinful, sensual - the way his tongue wraps around her name. 

She sees no point in lying.

“Only by you.”

He leans in, his lips coming closer before they swerve. His mouth brushes warm breath across her cheek, and Sansa’s burning.

“Did you like it?”

She feels his question between her thighs, a throbbing, a pulsing, that has her squeezing her legs together.

“What does it matter?” she bites out as his fingers splay around her waist and his lips skim her cheek. She refuses to bend, to break and bow, scrambling onto control.

“It matters,” he says simply, before placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

It’s a whisper of a kiss, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing, and goosebumps erupt across her skin.

She lets out a frustrated noise from the back of her throat when he drops his lips to her neck, planting a hot kiss there. She tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut, as his talented mouth dances across the skin. Things move quicker then, as both hands come to anchor themselves on her waist, and he starts to walk her backwards.

She feels her back hit the bedpost, a heated gasp escaping her.

He lifts his head to look at her again, his fingers playing with the thin straps of her nightshift. He pulls them down slightly, heat sparking from his fingertips, before his hands find their way back to her waist.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs against her mouth, their breath dancing in the tiny gap between them. His lips brush hers and she shudders, hands flying up to grab his jerkin. The leather is too thick and she can’t quite grasp it, can’t get close enough, and a noise of frustration escapes her.

“A conqueror doesn’t ask,” she whispers into the tiny gap between them, feeling his lips curve into a smile against hers. She’s seen him in the courtyard, the kiss of steel as he gets the better of Aegon and places his sword under his chin. He’s sparred with Robb, even with her father and his own, and she’s never seen anyone beat him.

The Targaryens are conquerors, and Jon’s no exception.

He grips her chin with a thumb and forefinger, finding her eyes.

“You are my wife,” he tells her, a fierce edge to her voice, “not my subject.”

He doesn’t want to just _take_ , she realises. He wants her to want him. He wants to own her, body and soul. He wants her to surrender.

She can’t surrender - not completely, at least. But her body is calling out for something she doesn’t understand, and she pulls him closer still.

“Kiss me then, _husband,_ ” she whispers shakily, and he concedes.

She blazes beneath him, her blood wildfire, his lust a spark. The careful control she keeps on herself disintegrates and hot pangs of lust snap at her heels as she opens her mouth and feels him slip his tongue inside. It slides against hers, rough and hot silk, and when it retreats, she groans and seeks it out again.

He changes the angle of the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, and she feels the sharp scrape of his teeth on her lips.

She pulls back when she feels breathless, dragging her mouth to his ear.

“Is it always like that?” she asks as his hands travel to her the edge of her shift.

Her cheek rubs against his, the grit of his stubble sliding over her cheekbone.

“No,” he murmurs simply – then his hands are pulling the shift up and away and she’s naked, stripped bare before him in more ways than one.

She fights the urge to shrink and hide, her nipples pebbling in the cold air.

He gently takes her wrists before she can cover herself.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and then he’s kissing her again.

She moans into his mouth, that one word giving her the confidence to untie the laces of his jerkin, working on instinct, on sensation, because she doesn’t want to break away from his lips. With some help, she’s got it unlaced and is pushing it off his shoulders, hearing it flutter to the floor. 

She tugs at his shirt then, pulling it from his breeches and practically clawing at his shoulders. He unlaces it for her, his mouth slanting over hers, and she desperately chases his lips when he breaks away to pull it over his head.

 _Beautiful,_ she repeats in her head, eyes sweeping across his strong chest.

He kisses her again, scraping his teeth along her bottom lip, and then achingly slowly, deliberately, he sucks it into his mouth a little, slippery slick, smooth and expert.

She deserts his mouth to return to his ear, breathing hot against it, making him groan and lower his hands to her backside, gripping her flesh as she feels his erection, hot and hard against her, for the first time.

“You want me to submit,” she breathes, shifting her hips slightly, drunk with power at the grunt it pulls from him, “but perhaps it is you who should bend.”

“Would you like that?” he mutters huskily and she almost regrets trying to play with him; she’s out of her depth, “a prince, on his knees for you?”

Her cheeks burst into heat at the notion, feverish and lost to desire.

She still won’t submit. She wants to push him, because she’s starting to crave that fire in his eyes when he’s angry.

“Yes,” she hisses through her teeth and his hand goes between her wet thighs, “perhaps I will think of Aegon.”

“You will not,” he practically growls and his hand is gone, but she can’t lament it, because his mouth is suddenly there instead.

Her eyes fly open, a strangled cry that quickly turns into a moan escaping her.

She’d been stubborn, feigning indifference, but the sight of him – a prince on his knees for her, as he’d said – has her body exploding into heat. His hands spread her legs wider, fingers digging into her wet thighs, as his tongue slides up and down. Her hands fly to his head, finally - _finally_ – pulling the leather band from his hair and running her fingers through his curls. He grunts at the feel of her nails scratching his scalp, the sound causing a vibration to spark through her.

She sucks in a sharp breath, her head tipping back against the bedpost, as he pushes his tongue inside of her, then outside, but further up, in the spot Jeyne had giggled and said made a girl’s legs go weak. He laps at her insistently, buried in her cunt, and when she tugs at his hair slightly and pulls his head back, she almost peaks at the blackness of his eyes. He doesn’t break eye contact as he continues eating her out messily, teeth scraping against her clit.

“Jon,” she whimpers his name for the first time, her thighs trembling around his head.

“Say it again,” he turns his head and grunts into her thigh, his lips and beard wet with her slick. She feels it on her skin, the cold air cooling, and his tongue is back to her slit as though he can wring it out of her.

She keens against the post, spreading her legs wider for him, lost to pleasure. When he pops a finger in his mouth, slickening it and slowly inserting it inside her, it pushes her over the edge.

She doesn’t say his name; she practically sobs it.

“ _Jon_ ,” her toes curl, her back arching, unable to make sense of what’s happening to her. Pleasure crashes over her body like a tidal wave, her vision blurring, and he slings an arm over her stomach to keep her still while he laps at her, his tongue coaxing the last of her pleasure.

When he stands, she anchors herself by gripping onto his breeches, fingers curling into the band.

“You will think only of me,” he makes it clear, his thumb and forefinger on her chin again, dragging her attention back to him, commanding it, “from this day, until the end of your days.”

Hazy with desire, her mind floods and she wonders where this is coming from, this almost _desperation_ to be wanted. To be first, to be enough. She knows he’s legitimised and Rhaegar’s favourite, so much of his mother in him, so much of Lyanna, but to the Seven Kingdoms, he’ll always be a bastard.

It must have been difficult, growing up in the shadow of his siblings - half a wolf, half a dragon, but never a whole of anything.

She’s suddenly struck by the strange desire to help him, to be by his side as he navigates his way through the world. He’s infuriated her from the start, aloof and almost cold, but there’s clearly kindness and a fierce sense of loyalty there too. There’s a connection, a burning under the skin.

 _Mine,_ the wolf inside her growls.

“If you will think of me,” she insists just as obstinately, her trembling fingers reaching for his breeches, “and only of me.”

His hands gently come to grip her wrists in loose cuffs.

 _Slow,_ his eyes seem to urge, _calm._

He unlaces his ties for her and then he’s stepping out of them, them and his smallclothes, and she’s staring at a naked man’s cock for the first time.

She bites her lip, liquid heat pooling in the pit of her stomach again.

This time, she takes control. She kisses him slowly, almost sweetly. Then she’s sitting on the bed and reaching up for him, cold hands trailing across his stomach.

The strong muscles twitch under her fingers.

“No other Northern girls.”

He looks down at her, one eyebrow arched.

“No.”

She glances up at him, gaze hooded, blue eyes blazing.

“No Dornish girls, or pretty Highgarden roses.”

His mouth twitches under his beard at this one, his hand coming to cup her cheek. He shakes his head, his thumb slowly rubbing across her bottom lip.

She begins to shuffle back onto the furs, hand gently wrapping around his wrist.

The next one she’s nervous about and she holds her breath.

“No girls across the Narrow Sea with hair like mine.”

She watches the movement of his chest as he takes a breath, a melancholy expression flashing over his features. His voice is gentler, softer, this time as he murmurs, “no.”

She tugs him back and he climbs on top, bracketed between her thighs. His cock nudges against her entrance, wet and insistent, and she arches against him.

“Only you,” he mutters.

She cradles his promise in the hollow of her throat.

He slides a finger inside her, twisting it. The foreign intrusion stings slightly, but it’s nothing she can’t handle, and she appreciates she’ll need to be prepared for when he enters her. He slides another inside and rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs. A soft moan falls from her lips, sparking his attention.

With his other hand, he pulls her bottom lip from where it’s caught between her teeth.

“One day,” he starts in a low, dangerous voice, “I want to see these pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

She feels a flare of desire at the words, her eyelids flickering. He must feel it on his fingers because he’s letting out a groan of his own.

“You’re wet,” he husks into her neck.

“I’m sorry?” she says it like a question.

He kisses her, once on the mouth for encouragement.

“It’s a good thing,” his smile is decidedly wicked then, as that flare of arrogance is back, “it means you want me.”

“I do,” she admits, submits, _finally –_ and she’s surprised to see his smile falter, the pride, the overconfidence, wiped away.

She reaches up to cradle his jaw, his beard rough and coarse and perfect against her fingers.

Then she feels him pressing into her, her heat and the wet inviting him in. Her breath catches but he only pushes in slightly, giving her time to adjust, and she feels his gaze on her as her eyelids flutter.

There’s a sharp stab of pain as he slowly pushes in all the way, but his eyes are on her, even as his jaw clenches tight with restraint. She screws her eyes shut as he pulls out and slowly back in, his fingers entwining with hers by the side of her head.

Soon, the pain recedes into more of a dull ache, and she spreads her thighs wider.

Shocks of pleasure spark from her toes to her head, her core growing increasingly slick. He bites a groan into her hair, his hips snapping faster. Her breath feels shallow in her chest as her fingers tangle in his curls, anchoring him to her neck. She’s stunned at how good this feels, how _right,_ like every part of her was made to fit and surround him just like this, like every nook and cranny has _always_ had his name on it.

“ _Jon_ ,” she moans, forgetting all thoughts of golden haired princes and Aegon and every Northern boy who’s ever smiled at her. She wonders if he’s ruined her forever, and if that’s something to be mourned or celebrated.

“That’s it – talk to me,” he bites out, fucking her in shallow thrusts, “you are so incredibly tight.”

She doesn’t know what to say - maybe he can teach her - so for now, she just says his name.

“ _Jon,_ ” she chokes out, gasping as he thrusts hard, once, and buries himself to the hilt, “Jon, Jon, Jon.”

She repeats his name like a prayer, a raspy and familiar welcome home.

“My wolf,” he murmurs into her hair and then swallows her gasp with a kiss, “my wife.”

Her chest feels too tight at the moniker, the emblem of her house, _who she is._

He’s called her a dragon on more than one occasion, an obvious power play, an implication – _you are what I am, you are mine._

Now, when he’s stripped bare and vulnerable, that fluttering veil between them ripped away, he calls her a wolf.

He sees what she is, what she’s always been and always will be, and he accepts it. He _wants_ it.

Maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s the way he plays with her clit as he fucks her, but she tumbles over the edge again with a broken cry. Her cunt pulses around him, slippery hot and too wet and too _good_ , and he comes inside her with a groan.

She cradles him between her legs, feels his seed slick on her inner thighs when he pulls out, and she fights a strange urge to squeeze her thighs together. She wants to keep it inside, this strange and fragile and delicate thing between them, wants to keep it and cultivate it and help it grow.

She never dreamed she’d find someone like him.

But she _has_ found him – the complicated, allusive, _beautiful_ Prince of Dragonstone - and it’s not quite as terrible as she imagined.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of his father’s death brings Prince Jon Targaryen back to Kings Landing. 
> 
> Here, he must contend with a brother who’s adrift, an aunt returned with three dragons, and a wife who frustrates him as much as she enamours him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I always intended this to be a oneshot - but a few of you requested a second part. Targaryen!Jon is my jam, and it was hard to get into his headspace, but hopefully it came off okay.
> 
> Before you read, I feel like I should say there is some mention of Jon/Ygritte here (alternate universe where Ygritte is from KL, it just didn’t feel right for the redhead to be Ros). I know readers can get a bit angry at mentions of Jon with anyone else. So yeah, if it bothers you to read about Jon being in love with someone else before, maybe keep that in mind.

Prince Jon Targaryen stares at the words in-front of him, his dark eyes unblinking.

The parchment is torn, faded and weathered from the crow’s journey to Dragonstone, and he scrunches it in his hand.

He briefly closes his eyes, pain crashing into him with the force of the waves at Shipbreaker Bay. He clenches his jaw so hard his teeth start to ache and he clicks his neck, forcing himself to relax. Surely he must have known this day would come, that he would lose the only parent he had left.

But then — perhaps a part of him had always considered Rhaegar invincible.

He had been strong. He had survived countless jousts and duels and the swing of Robert Baratheon’s warhammer at the Trident. He had been foolish too, selfish and rash. He had caused a great deal of pain, brought an entire Kingdom to its knees because he loved Jon’s mother, but _still_ —

He was his father and Jon had loved him.

And now he’s gone.

His eyes and throat burn as he tries to process it, hardly noticing as two arms snake their way around his waist from behind.

“What’s wrong?”

He hums slightly in acknowledgement, his brow quirking as he turns his face to the side. He can’t see her but he can feel her, soft and kind and warm like home.

_His wife._

Nigh on a year later, the word still seems strange on his tongue. Stranger still is how her presence comforts him, spreading over his skin like a warm blanket.

It’s still very confusing between them, very new, but he can’t deny his body’s reaction to her.

“My father is dead,” he says brusquely, handing her the worn parchment as he gently disentangles himself from her arms.

Sansa freezes before her eyes slide to the paper.

She stares at the words so intensely, he could swear she’s trying to will them off the page, send them spiralling into the air in a cloud of black ink until they’re no longer true. When she’s finished, he feels the heat of her eyes as they follow him around the room.

“Jon, I’m so sorry.”

It sounds like she means it, her voice achingly soft, and he briefly closes his eyes again. 

“We leave for Kings Landing in the morning,” he says in reply. She could say no, but he hopes she won’t, and he watches as she takes a step towards him, “there will be much to organise, what with his funeral and Aegon’s coronation.”

She nods, her hands clasped in-front of her.

She’s the ice to his fire, carrying that calm energy with her everywhere, and it’s one of the reasons he’s glad he married her.

When his anger flares, blood of the dragon stirring, she tempers his impulses. She keeps him grounded.

 _My wife,_ he still finds himself saying, _my wolf._

“We can worry about that tomorrow,” she murmurs, touching a palm to his cheek, “for now, let me hold you.”

It’s not something he’s used to, finds it difficult to be cut open and vulnerable. Still, he relents, his shoulders folding like the worn parchment in her hand as she embraces him. 

When she kisses him, he can taste tears.

He can’t be sure they’re hers.

The next morning, Sansa finds him in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

The said furniture dominates the room, carved in the shape of Westeros’ cities and landmarks. His eyes are focused on Kings Landing in particular, a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn’t want to go. He has little interest in the politics of the capital, has worked with Sansa to try and make Dragonstone home. She had hated it at first, found it cold and foreign and strange. She’d said it felt more like a military base than a palace, and over the months, she had decorated it every which way to make it warmer.

 _She_ was warm too, he’d noticed.

She was kind to everyone, even the stable hands and kitchen maids. She knew all their names. She’d call them as such when they brought them supper and he’d find himself bothered by it, too indifferent and lost to his duties as Prince to do the same.

They said fire ran through his veins, but there was no doubt that she was the warm one.

His hands find purchase on the table in-front of him and he remembers the first time she had done the same.

_“Such an ugly table,” she had remarked, her fingers trailing over the jagged surface, “I should like to melt it down and destroy it.”_

_“No,” Jon had replied simply._

_Already, he could see his new wife hated the word and fire flared behind her eyes. It spurred him on, something exciting and new thrumming between them._

_"_ _And why not?”_

_“It cannot be destroyed,” he had started in a low, even tone, “because I’m going to fuck you on it.”_

And he had.

As she walks in now, looking ethereal and serene and everything he thought he’d never have, he thinks he would again. If the circumstances were different, he would lay her down and spread her legs, kiss away her pout as she curses the Reach, the tiny stone Highgarden digging into her back.

Today, he just lets her embrace him again, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“It’s time to go,” she murmurs, and slots her hand into his.

“Welcome home, brother,” Aegon greets him with open arms, a strong pat on his back.

“Your Grace,” Jon replies in a drawl, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The new King rolls his eyes, pushing him off with a gentle shove, and turns his attention to Sansa.

“Lady Sansa,” he dips into a dramatic bow, taking her hand and kissing it, “you look every inch a dragon in that dress.”

Her gown is red and black, emblematic of the Targaryen colours, of fire and blood, but when he looked closely, Jon could see a tiny wolf embroidered over her heart.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Aegon,” she says gently. Jon sees a flicker of sadness pass over his brother’s features before he gets himself in check.

“It was quick,” he says, “I would have called for you… had there been time to say goodbye.”

Jon nods, an ache in his chest.

“Your letter said it was a jousting accident?”

Aegon nods, his normally playful expression turned solemn.

“The lance went under his helmet and through his neck. He didn’t stand a chance.”

He feels the heat of Sansa’s eyes on him as he swallows, averting his gaze. He pictures his father in what must have been agonising pain, pools of blood seeping into the dusty ground. He was a good rider, one of the best, but freak accidents happen.

He also considers it a strange twist of fate, that Rhaegar’s life should end at a tourney, the very place Jon’s began when the Queen of Beauty’s laurel was placed in Lyanna Stark’s lap.

Talk turns to the funeral then, with Aegon telling them Rhaenys will be arriving shortly from Dorne, where she lives after marrying their cousin Trystane Martell. He says he’s ordered Viserys to be on his best behaviour, though Jon doubts his uncle’s ability to put aside his spiteful nature, even for his brother’s funeral.

He says Daenerys will shortly be returning from the Free City of Pentos and Jon’s brows furrow, wondering what on earth she could be doing there.

Aegon doesn’t elaborate, and for now, Jon doesn’t care enough to ask.

Instead, he feels a knife in his heart as he quietly asks, “where is your mother?”

Jon finds Elia in the gardens, sitting quietly on one of the benches.

He bends to his knee, bowing his head before her.

He feels her as she leans forward, her presence soft and calming, the way it’s always been since he was a boy. She takes his face in her hands, tipping his chin to look at her.

She looks older than he remembers, soft and sad and very, _very_ tired.

He forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You look so handsome, Jon.”

It never fails to surprise him, her gentle and forgiving nature. Since he was young, he had always taken after his mother’s side. He has the North in him, the long face and dark colouring of the Starks. Even his temperament is said to be more wolf than dragon, melancholy and sullen. 

To Elia, he should be a walking, talking reminder of her husband’s betrayal, and yet she’s never treated him any differently, never acted like it pains her to look at him.

Now he’s a husband himself, with a wife he thinks he could love, he can only imagine the pain she must have felt. The thought of Sansa bearing another man’s child, of having to raise that child as his own, fills him with white hot rage, the dragon in him stirring, and he thinks it’d be more than he could bear. 

“I’m sorry, Elia,” he murmurs, leaning into her touch, “I came as soon as I heard.”

She gives him a gentle smile.

“Did you bring that lovely wife with you?”

His mouth twitches under his beard.

“I did,” he says, “why don’t you come inside and say hello?”

“In a little while,” Elia whispers, her dark eyes suddenly filling with tears, “I just want to look at you.”

He nods and her fingers gently thread through his dark curls as he lays his head in her lap.

Not the woman who gave birth to him, but the only mother he’s ever known.

Sleep evades him that first night in Kings Landing.

The castle is silent, the only noise coming from the fire crackling in the corner, and he clenches his jaw until it aches.

Sansa hums next to him, turning over and opening her eyes sleepily. She doesn’t look surprised to see him awake and she sends him a tired smile.

Aegon had offered them separate chambers, as is conventional for a man and wife, but he didn’t want to be apart from her. Over the past year, she’s become his constant, the one person he cares about, who he respects and trusts and just always, _always_ wants to be near. He’s not as strong as everyone thinks he is.

His mouth twitches as he looks down at her, bare faced and soft in the candlelight. He strokes some hair from her face, watches as she leans into his hand. It pleases him, how she’s come to welcome his touch, so far removed from the scared little thing she had been on their wedding night.

They haven’t said the word _love_ yet, but it’s there, brimming under the surface, just out of reach. The way they react to each other is undeniable, primal.

“You cannot carry this pain alone,” she’s whispering, astute to his reticence, his propensity for burying his feelings deep inside, “let me take care of you.”

Then she’s leaning up and kissing him.

Her mouth is soft and warm and wet as it slides over his. They kiss for a few moments, tongues languidly exploring, before her mouth travels to his jaw. She nuzzles into him like a wolf, nosing over the grit of his stubble. 

He takes her face in his hands, a little growl rumbling from his chest. He kisses her harder now, his tongue licking inside the hot cavern of her mouth. He’s still hurt, but she’s the only one who makes him feel better, and he puts his father to the back of his mind for now.

He doesn’t break from her mouth as he turns them over, covering her with his body. He feels her feet start to push down his smallclothes and he helps her, tugging them down his legs. Then, he removes her own and lifts her shift until it pools at her waist, preparing her with his fingers and rubbing her clit until she’s dripping wet for him.

He feels an answering twitch in his cock, his fingers toying idly between her thighs.

“Inside me,” she pants against his mouth, “ _please._ ”

He obeys because he’s a slave to her affection, spreading her legs wider and sliding inside her. She’s so warm and so good and so _his,_ and the sensation is overwhelming. He sets a steady pace, pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in to the hilt.

His fucks into her slowly, each time sliding deeper inside her warm cunt. She arches against the bed, letting out a quiet moan into his neck, and he hisses through his teeth when she digs her nails into his back.

It’s over quickly, both of them needy and desperate to finish, to let the wave of pleasure wash away the pain. His thrusts quicken, her hips rising to meet him, and he's learned exactly how to rub her clit to bring her off. She bites his bottom lip when she peaks, her cunt tightening around his cock.

The sensation fires off his own orgasm and he shudders as he spills inside her, filling her with warm seed. 

When it’s over, he can’t help but notice how she tilts her hips up slightly to keep his seed inside, and the sadness hits him like a wave again.

Once the funeral is over, a difficult day for all, Jon and Aegon sit quietly in the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

Aegon sits on the Iron Throne, his fingers casually running along the edge of a blade, and talk turns to marriage.

“You cannot keep refusing every match,” Jon quirks a brow, his own fingers circling the edge of his wine cup, “you are a King now, and you need heirs.”

His free spirit had infuriated their father, who had tried effortlessly to broker marriage deals with every eligible lady and princess in Westeros. Aegon would have them all, but he wouldn’t marry them, and Rhaegar would despair at his disregard for duty.

Jon had played his part, had accepted his own marriage, and it was time for Aegon to do the same.

“ _Your_ wife is very beautiful,” Aegon quips suddenly, a smirking pulling at his lips, “perhaps I’ll take her.”

Jon narrows his eyes, heat flaring under his skin. He knows his brother is joking, but the change in him in just a year is jarring. He seems crueller now, adrift and lost.

They say half the Targaryens went mad, and Jon worries for his state of mind.

He’s also not blind to the fact that Sansa had wanted Aegon first. He thinks things have changed between them, that she no longer dreams of a golden prince, but he can’t be sure, and all those childhood feelings of inadequacy rear their ugly head.

“You will not.”

Aegon raises a brow at his growl.

“Don’t tell me you’ve grown to care for her?” he laughs incredulously, “with all your anger at being used as a _pawn_ for this family, marrying for a _political alliance,_ not love.”

Jon shrugs, well aware that he hadn’t been happy about the match at first.

He remembers the first conversation they'd had, burning with frustration and cold detachment. 

_"I've seen the lovesick way you stare at my brother," he had said, "you dream of a golden prince."_

_"You do not dream of me either.”_

_She had matched him, step for step, right from the start._

_"I do not."_

“I’m joking _,_ Jon,” Aegon drawls eventually, his expression deadpan, “ _Gods_ , I swear you’ve never laughed in your life.”

Jon takes a sip of wine, grateful for the soothing taste as it slips down his throat.

“Perhaps you’ve never given me cause to,” he replies dully.

Aegon rolls his eyes.

“Well, if it worries you so much brother, you will be pleased to know I _have_ decided upon a match.”

Jon raises a brow, waiting for him to continue.

When his brother smiles, Jon’s not sure he likes it, all crooked and wicked, and not reaching his eyes.

“I’m going to ask for Daenerys’ hand.”

Jon pauses, surprise flickering over his normally stoic expression.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Aegon grumbles before he can respond, “she’s only our aunt, and Targaryens have wed brother and sister for centuries. There was talk about her marrying Viserys.”

Jon knows this.

Still, having grown up with her, a friend as well as family, the prospect is rather foreign and unsavoury to him.

“Daenerys has grown into a beautiful woman,” Jon concedes, “there’s no denying that. But she’s already family — is there no-one who could offer a more beneficial alliance?”

“Rhaenys has already secured Dorne,” Aegon answers, referencing their sister currently sleeping in her old chambers, “and Viserys too, with Arianne. You have secured Winterfell and the North. I suppose there is the Reach and Highgarden, and Margaery Tyrell is an option, but Dany is still the better match. I haven’t told you about her journey to Pentos, have I?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head, that brow still arched. His elbow rests on the arm of his chair, his chin slotted between his thumb and forefinger.

“She says she saw a vision in the flames,” he speaks ominously, his voice tinged with amusement, “it took her to the free cities, where she met a Magister named Illyrio. He gave her three eggs that had been turned to stone by the passage of time. She slept on them for months, and then one day, she walked with them into a flaming pyre. She emerged unscathed — and with three new dragons.”

Jon narrows his gaze, processing this information. The world hasn’t seen dragons in over a century and a half, and he feels a mixture of confusion, interest and dread.

“I didn’t notice any when I saw her,” Jon retorts dryly, remembering a decidedly dragon-less Daenerys at the funeral.

“They’re still small,” Aegon shrugs, “I’m not sure where she’s keeping them. Regardless, if I want to be a Targaryen King of Westeros, I better be one of those bloody dragonriders.”

Jon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He hopes he knows what Aegon is doing, because he’s not sure that he does, and then he’s speaking again.

“Besides, all this talk of heirs…” his brother waves a dismissive hand, “ _you’re_ the one who’s been married nigh on a year – where is my niece or nephew?”

Jon’s blood turns cold, the air chilling around him. He hasn’t discussed this with anyone, not even Sansa. He doesn’t know why — they’ve shared each other’s beds more times than he can count, that part of their relationship having always been effortless — but it just hasn’t happened. 

He knows she wants a child. He’s seen the forlorn way she stares when they come into contact with one, the sad and guarded expression that flickers over her face.

He wants more than anything to give her a son or daughter, half wolf, half dragon — but a dark part of him wonders if it’s just not in the Gods’ plan for them. 

Unable to cope with the conflicting emotions coursing through his veins, he stands, seemingly finished with this conversation.

“I have to go. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”

Aegon raises a brow but he nods. Jon’s grateful he doesn’t push the subject.

“And Aegon?” he turns to leave but he gives one more order before he does, his voice dark and low, “don’t _ever_ speak of heirs to Sansa.”

“He’s marrying your _aunt_?”

Sansa’s nose scrunches in distaste as she stands in-front of the mirror and brushes some invisible fluff off her dress.

Jon stands, cracking his knuckles slightly as he walks over to her. He reaches for the wine on the dresser next to her and pours her a cup. She takes it with an arched brow, watching him as he pours his own.

“It’s very normal for Targaryens,” he shrugs, “and may I remind you, _we_ are cousins? Is it any different?”

She takes a sip of wine and he watches the movement of her throat as she swallows it.

“I suppose not,” she says quietly, “but sometimes I find that easy to forget. We never knew each other growing up.”

He hums, strumming his fingers on the edge of the cup.

“Do we know each other now?” she adds when he doesn’t say anything, her voice a little nervous, “sometimes you feel very far away.”

He turns to look at her, this beautiful and brave and strong woman, and feels a strange ache in his chest. 

It’s very new, very delicate and unspoken, and he can’t find the words to explain it, but sometimes she’s all he thinks about.

“I think so,” he starts in a quiet murmur, “I know that you’re brave and you’d do anything for your family. I know you’re patient and kind. I know you’re a good wife.”

He watches her expression falter, a trembling smile on her lips. She looks surprised and he can’t blame her, his reserve is well known, and he doesn’t often gush about his feelings. He supposes it’s another way he’s different from the perfumed, golden lord she dreamed of as a little girl. 

But he wants to _try_. He wants to be better.

He puts his cup down, his movements slow and smooth as he walks behind her and winds his arms around her waist. He sees her breath hitch, feels her head tip back to rest against his shoulder. Her hands come to rest over his, her palm sliding over the back of his hand and gently gripping his wrist.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs into her neck, gently moving her hair until it drapes over her shoulder and he can place a kiss on her bare skin, “and I know something else.”

“What’s that?”

The three little words burn on the tip of his tongue, but he just can’t say them.

They lodge in his throat, something holding him back. Regardless, he can say something, something he’s known since the day she came hurtling into his life.

“I’m a lucky man.”

The feast is extravagant, far more so than anything Rhaegar ever organised, and Jon pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

When the war was done, Rhaegar had returned to Kings Landing a conquering hero. He had turned his back on the lavish wealth that had made his family unpopular. He had convened a Grand Council and explained that his father was not well, and he would take the mantle of leadership and ensure war would never happen again.

He had made his mistakes but he was level headed and looking at Aegon now, his eyes slightly glassy, Jon worries about him succumbing to the madness that had pervaded the Targaryens for centuries.

Daenerys is beautiful as she sits by his side, sipping delicately at her wine. She accepted Aegon’s proposal, as Jon knew she would, and he keeps an eye on her as the celebratory feast rages on.

It seems rather fast, the city still mourning Rhaegar’s death, but Aegon insisted the country must move on, as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

An hour into the celebrations, Jon finds himself speaking to Daenerys.

“How are you finding Dragonstone?”

“It’s much like Kings Landing,” he says indifferently, “but I enjoy having somewhere to call our own.”

He says _ours,_ not _his,_ because Dragonstone belongs to Sansa as much as it belongs to him.

Daenerys must notice because her mouth tips into a gentle smile.

“Your wife is lovely,” she says, her eyes flitting to the woman in question, chatting to Elia on the other side of the room, “a true Northern rose. You look happier too — relaxed, far less brooding. Being a husband suits you.”

She pinches his cheek playfully, laughs when he grumbles and brushes her hand away.

“Aegon told me where you’ve been,” he says, “Pentos, I understand?”

A wistful expression sweeps over her face, something soft and gentle.

“I can’t explain it, Jon,” she starts, “I was just in my solar one evening, staring at the fire and I _saw_ something there. In the flames. I didn’t know what it was, just the shape of it. Then the next evening, my handmaiden came running in trying to stop me when I got into the bath she’d run. She said the water was too hot, scorching, but I didn’t feel a thing.”

Jon arches a brow, processing the information.

“I did not think Targaryens were immune to fire.”

“They’re not,” she laughs a little, sounding incredulous, “I don’t know why it happened. I just know I was meant to find them.”

“The dragons?”

“My children,” she corrects, her voice soft, “they’re my children, as real as the ones you will have someday.”

The mention makes him uncomfortable, a sadness running through his veins. Daenerys notices this too, her brows furrowing.

“Are you okay?” she asks, “you look sad.”

He forces a smile.

“Sansa wants a child,” he doesn’t see the point in lying, and truth be told, he feels like he needs to talk to someone too, “she doesn’t talk about it, but I can tell it hurts her. I just wish I could do something. I want more than anything to make her a mother.”

“And do you want to be a father?”

He pauses.

He supposes he’s never given it much thought, not since he made his mind up when he was young. He vowed never to father a bastard. He was lucky that Rhaegar legitimised him, that he never officially held the title of bastard like so many others, but he’d still felt like one. Like an outsider. He had been so different to Aegon and Rhaenys, in both looks and temperament, and he’d harboured the guilt over his parents affair for most of his life.

But he supposes he would like a child, a son or daughter with his curls and Sansa’s eyes. The thought of it makes him feel curiously warm.

“I don’t want to make Rhaegar’s mistakes,” he says quietly.

“Rhaegar _did_ make mistakes, that’s true,” Daenerys concedes with a little tip of his head, “but he loved your mother. You should take comfort in that. Be patient, Jon. Children will come, when the time is right. Do you love your wife?”

He glances at her, surprised at the question.

He looks at Sansa again, half bathed in light from the roaring fire, and tries to understand the feeling stuck deep in his chest.

“We’ve grown very close and I trust her. I care about her, more than anyone. More than I ever thought I would. And there are these… moments… when I want to say it, but there’s just something holding me back.”

Daenerys looks at him for a moment, like she’s trying to work him out, and then she sighs.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Jon scoffs, running a tired hand over his face.

“You’re going to tell me anyway.”

She smirks.

“I think you love her very much,” she says eventually, gently, “when she’s around, you’re always touching her and listening to her and I think I even saw you _smile_ once. You watch her, Jon. I doubt you know how much.”

He tears his eyes away from her to look at Daenerys, proving his aunt’s point.

“I think you’re stuck in the past,” Daenerys continues, “I think you had your heart broken and never came to terms with it.”

He bristles slightly, his back straightening. He hasn’t thought of Ygritte in years. That was another time, another life, and it’s over now. 

“That’s all in the past. She’s gone.”

 _“It’s done, Sansa,”_ he had said, _“she’s gone.”_

But perhaps Daenerys is right. Perhaps it isn’t done, because Rhaegar had sent her away before he could close the door, before he could even say goodbye, and now he can’t give all of himself to Sansa, and that’s what she deserves.

Daenerys shuffles on her feet, looking awkward, and he doesn’t like it.

“What is it?” he asks somewhat impatiently, narrowing his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say anything…” she starts, “but I think maybe you need to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

She pauses again before she seemingly makes her decision, releasing a heavy breath.

“I saw Ygritte in Pentos,” she says quickly and his stomach twists strangely, “she was working for the merchant who gave me the eggs. He dealt in spices and gemstones and dragonbone too. I let it slip about Rhaegar’s death and… she said she was coming back.”

“What?” he breathes, “why would she do that?”

Daenerys clicks her fingers slightly, looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t think she was happy there. I don’t think she had a good life. I suppose she thought with Rhaegar gone, the one who banished her, she would be free to slip back into Kings Landing again.”

Jon runs a hand over his face again, feeling a million conflicting emotions course through his blood.

“You should go see her,” Daenerys says, surprising him, “she’s probably gone back to where ever you met her.”

She hides behind euphemism, sparing them both an awkward conversation, and Jon’s stunned she would even suggest it.

“I feel nothing for her,” he says, because it’s the truth, “it was years ago. I would _never_ betray my wife.”

His tone is fierce, biting like ice, and Daenerys flinches.

“I know,” she tries to placate him, placing a hand on his arm, “Jon, I _know_. But maybe this is what’s holding you back. Maybe if you just have the chance to say goodbye, you can put that chapter of your life behind you.”

Jon looks to Sansa, watches her throw her head back and laugh, and that ache in his chest is back again. He wants to be more for her, wants to be strong and whole, not afraid of changing and so stuck in the past.

“Thank you, Dany,” he murmurs, gently taking her hand and placing a kiss on the back of it.

It’s time to let go.

“Well, well, well…” Ros drawls, her dark eyes flickering up and down his form, “I never thought I’d see _you_ here again, my Prince.”

Jon clenches his jaw, his fingers flexing at his sides. He’s never particularly liked Ros and time hasn’t changed a thing, his patience wearing thin.

“Is she here?” he cuts straight to the point, a strange sense of guilt flaring under his skin.

He’s not interested in any woman other than Sansa, will never take a mistress like the princes and kings who have come before him. But it still feels wrong to be here, in a brothel he once frequented with his brother.

Aegon had his appetites and Jon had spent years refusing to join him, sullenly insisting he wasn’t interested. One lapse of weakness had brought him here and he’d seen Ygritte and that was that. He’d never been with anyone else, Sansa being his second and his last woman.

Ros quirks a brow before releasing a heavy sigh.

“I’ll go get her.”

He knew she’d come back here — she didn’t have anywhere or anyone else — but the confirmation still sets his teeth on edge.

Ros is gone in a flurry of crimson lace as her gown flutters behind her and then the door is closing.

When it opens again, Ygritte stands on the other side.

It’s curious, the feeling that sweeps over him.

He doesn’t feel pain, or hurt, or anger — all sensations that had rocketed through him like a storm when he’d found out how Rhaegar had sent her away. He doesn’t feel joy or happiness either, things he always thought he would feel if he ever saw her again.

He feels… _nothing_.

She looks the same. She looks well. But what he had found beautiful and perfect about her before, he now finds ordinary.

“Jon,” she whispers, taking a step towards him, and just like that, it clicks.

Her hair is the wrong shade of red, and her eyes the wrong blue, and she’s too short and her voice is too low.

She’s not Sansa.

The realisation is almost immediate, striking him like a jab from a sword and just as painful.

She rushes towards him, her eyes teary and full of everything he doesn’t feel, and he snaps into life. He quickly holds his hands out, grabbing the tops of her arms and holding her at a distance.

“No," he murmurs, low and deep, “I’m married.”

She steps back, unmistakable hurt flashing through her eyes.

“You’re _married_?”

Her voice is incredulous, her brows pulling into a frown.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, “I just — I wanted to see you.”

She quirks a brow, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You wanted to see me… but you’re married?”

He steps back, running a hand over his face. He’s doing this all wrong, not making himself clear.

“Not for… _that_ ,” he bites out, “we just never got the chance to say goodbye and I wanted to remedy that. You look well. Are you well?”

She still looks speechless, wide eyed and blinking.

She shifts on her feet a bit and when she speaks her voice is quiet, vulnerable in a way he _never_ expected from her. She had always been so wild, so unapologetic and free.

“Are you going to send me away again?”

“No,” he insists, shaking his head, “Aegon’s King now. I don’t even live in the city anymore. You’re safe.”

She nods, the air hanging awkwardly between them.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” she says, “but there wasn’t any time. Your father wanted me gone.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, because he is, “I’m sorry he sent you away.”

She clicks her tongue, looking a little resentful.

“Looks like you got over it.”

He did, but there was a time he loved her very much, and he wants her to know it wasn’t easy.

“Not for a long time,” he says quietly.

She blinks, her expression tired and sad.

“What’s she like?” she asks, as blunt as he remembers, “this wife of yours? Highborn and pretty, I assume.”

He tips his head to the side, trying to find the words, because she _is_ those things, but she’s so much more.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to answer that,” Ygritte mutters suddenly, “it doesn’t matter. Do you love her?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. It feels like a strange weight has been lifted, that ache in his chest replaced by something warm.

“Yes,” he answers, “I love her very much.”

It looks like the words hurt, but Ygritte nods, clearing her throat.

“She’s lucky then,” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “to be loved by you is a wonderful thing.”

He tries to smile too, but the whole encounter is very sad, and he knows _he’s_ the lucky one.

“Goodbye Ygritte,” he says gently, “I really do wish you well.”

Ygritte nods, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

She steps forward to place a hand on his cheek, sending him one last smile.

“You too. Be happy, Jon,” she whispers, “I want that with all my heart.”

He leaves with a new sense of purpose, closing the door on a part of his life that’s been left open for years, and he’s determined to obey her command.

When he returns to their rooms in the castle, his wife doesn’t share his high spirits.

In-fact, she’s sitting at the desk, her fingers strumming furiously on the wooden surface and when he speaks, he sees her back tense.

“Sansa, I need to tell you something.”

He can see her reflection in the mirror in-front of her and he watches her jaw clench.

“Go on,” she practically spits, “say it.”

His brows pull into a frown, confused at her anger. He’s never seen her like this and he just comes out and says it.

“My aunt told me that Ygritte was back in Kings Landing. The girl I… well, you know. Before,” he grimaces at his own inarticulateness, “I went to see her and—”

“I know.”

He pauses, surprised.

“You know?”

She stands then, tying the belt of her robe a little too aggressively.

“Your sister told me,” she spits, her tone cutting like ice, “she overheard your conversation with Daenerys. If you’re going to have an affair, I really must insist you be more discreet. You owe me that much at least.”

He lets out an incredulous breath, his mind trying to catch up.

“An _affair_?” he takes a step towards her, “Sansa, the only reason I went to Ygritte was—”

“I don’t want to know!” Sansa raises her voice, “I’ve had enough from your sister. It was hard enough hearing it on our _wedding day,_ how she had red hair like me, and how you loved her, and how if you had the choice, you’d be with her. I didn’t need to hear it again, Jon.”

“What did Rhaenys say?” he asks lowly, taking another step towards her.

The first tear rolls down her flushed cheek and she furiously brushes it away.

“She said that the girl was back and you’d gone to see her,” she says, her voice sounding small, “then she made some quip about us not having children yet.”

His sister helpfully left out the part where they spoke about loving Sansa, about only needing to close the door, and anger flares under his skin. He tries to reach for her, but she pulls back.

“I will deal with my sister,” he says, low and dangerous, “but you have to believe me, we _will_ have children and you will be the best mother to them. And I was always going to tell you about seeing Ygritte. I only went to say goodbye and I felt nothing when I saw her. Less than nothing.”

Maybe she doesn’t believe him, or maybe she just doesn’t like his answer, because when he finally takes her arm, she tries to wrench it back.

“Get out,” she seethes, fire sparking behind her hurt eyes, “let me go!”

“How can I let you go,” he starts, his hand curling tight around the crook of her elbow, “when I’m in love with you?”

She freezes, her breath hitching.

He continues, something opening between them, aching and wide and exposed.

“I love you,” he repeats, his voice taking on a gentler tone, “I should have said it before. Seeing Ygritte again only made me more sure. I never felt for her the way I feel for you.”

“Never?” she says quietly, her anger fading slightly.

He shakes his head, leaning in slightly.

“Never,” he murmurs, “I meant it when I said there would be no-one else, only you, until the end of my days.”

_“No other Northern girls.”_

_“No Dornish girls, or pretty Highgarden roses.”_

_“No girls across the Narrow Sea with hair like mine.”_

_“Only you.”_

“Your sister is cruel,” Sansa mutters and he uses the hand not wrapped around her elbow to wipe the tears from her cheeks, “I want to go home.”

“To Winterfell?”

A flicker of surprise passes over her features.

“To Dragonstone,” she clarifies, “you think I’m going to leave you?”

He thinks she might, has always been prepared for the possibility because everyone leaves in the end.

“Losing you is my greatest fear.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” she says quietly, “because I love you too. I’ve known for a long time, but you were always so hard to read. I didn’t want to say it first.”

His chest feels too tight because she _loves_ him and that’s all he’s ever wanted. To be loved, to be wanted, to find his place in the world and be _enough._

They’re both so stubborn and they’ve wasted so much time.

“Let me show you,” he insists, because he doesn’t want to waste anymore, and leans in to capture her mouth in a kiss.

She yields beneath him, returning his kiss. She shrugs herself out of his grip so her arms can loop around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the back of his neck, the strands not tied back in his bun. His own hands go to her waist, pulling her flush against his body.

She’s in a sheer shift and he can feel her curves against him, all soft and supple. He wonders what she would feel like pressed against him with her stomach curved, glowing and round with his babe, and something dark and possessive flares to life inside him.

He feels her tongue press against the seam of his lips and he opens for her, her tongue tangling with his. He swallows the little moan she makes, their mouths sliding together, and molten heat starts to build in the pit of his stomach.

He gently pushes the straps of her shift down her shoulders, breaking away from her lips to mouth at her neck. She tips her head to the side, her eyes fluttering closed, as he plants hot, opened mouthed kisses down the length of her skin. He sucks a bloom into collarbone, revelling in the little hiss she makes, her hips bucking against him.

His hands travel to her behind, fingers digging into the flesh as he bends slightly and lifts her up. She wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him again as he walks her backwards to the desk.

He swipes away some makeup and her brush, sending them clattering loudly to the floor, and plants her on the surface. Her hands fly to grip the edge as she spreads her legs, allowing him to step between them. His hands go to the bottom of her shift, lifting it over her head.

She’s naked underneath and he almost groans, his mouth going straight to her nipple. He tugs it between his teeth and _does_ groan when one of her hands flies to his head, tugging the leather band from his hair and raking her fingers through his curls.

His mouth still latched to her nipple, he pulls up the desk chair and sits down on it.

He sees her eyes darkened as he spreads her legs, face to face with her soaking entrance. He kisses her inner thighs, his beard scratching her skin, and slips a finger down her slit, teasing and circling her clit.

With a hand on her lower stomach, he gently pushes her down, encouraging her to lie flat on the desk. She props herself up on her elbows, darkened eyes watching him, and he hooks her thighs over his shoulders. 

“Such a sweet cunt,” he mumbles and then begins to lick her.

She lets out a little choked sob, her thighs trembling around his head. Her juices flow out of her readily and he laps them up, his tongue flicking her nub. She whines, her hips thrusting against his face and he opens her wider, returning to his meal.

She begins to ride his face, from his nose to his beard, unapologetic about her pleasure. He grunts into her, tongue pushing into her entrance, and he swears he enjoys this as much as she does. It’s always been one of his favourite parts of coupling with her, how readily she accepts it, gives herself over to her arousal.

His cock is painfully hard, straining against his breeches, and he presses the heel of his hand into his crotch to relieve the ache.

It doesn’t work, so with one hand at her cunt, spreading her as he licks her clit, he uses the other to pull his cock out through the slit of his breeches.

He gives it lazy pumps as she fucks herself on his tongue.

He feels her thighs clenching around his head, senses she’s close, so he curls his tongue inside her, his nose bumping against her bundle of nerves.

“Cum for me, Sansa,” he orders before sucking her clit, “cum all over my face.”

She obeys with a broken sob, her body stretching taut like a bow before it snaps. She soaks him with her juices and he drinks them all, loving her taste. He waits until she stops trembling, her body slumping against the desk, before he places a teasing kiss to her cunt and stands up.

She sits up, stopping him with a hand to his chest, her eyes wild.

She looks beautiful like this, hair a mess, lips red from biting into them. He imagines he looks the same, mouth and beard wet from her, and she pushes him down into the chair again.

“I want to ride you,” she insists, climbing into his lap, and he bites out a groan into her hair. He remembers when she was shy, his timid little wolf who didn’t know her own pleasure. Now she demands it from him, at home with him.

He kisses her again, lips moving against hers as he lifts his hips and she tugs his breeches and smallclothes down. She hovers above him and he can feel the heat of her cunt, her wetness so close to his length, and he grunts against her mouth.

“I love you,” he says because it’s easy now, and he feels her lips curve into a smile.

“I love you,” she whispers as she sinks down onto his length.

She releases a shaky breath, beginning to set a steady pace. His hands grip her hips, leaving finger shaped bruises for her handmaidens to find in the morning. She says she likes it, that they can see the mark of her Prince’s hands on her when they help her dress. She’s a wolf, possessive and primal, and he likes it too.

She rocks her hips, her hands cupping his face, and their mouths brush, sliding hotly against each other but never quite connecting.

“You feel so good,” she moans, bouncing harder in his lap.

His lips trace her jaw while they move together and he’s practically shaking, because she’s so warm and so tight and so good.

“Mine,” she growls, her teeth scraping against his neck.

“Yours,” he grunts back in agreement, “ _always_.”

She tightens around his cock, ripping his own groan from him, and his hands fly to her backside. He grips her as she moves up and down, fucking herself on him harder, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

One hand flies between her legs, his thumb rubbing insistent circles. Her thighs start to tremble, her eyelids fluttering, and she grinds herself down on him. She’s nearing her peak, he can tell, and pleasure sparks up the length of his spine too.

She kisses him when she comes, silencing her sob of pleasure with his mouth. Her cunt clenches, her wetness clamping around his length, and it forces him to spend his seed inside her.

She shivers in his arms, draped around him, and he’s never felt like this before.

Like he’s home.

After Aegon’s coronation and wedding, when the dust has settled and three new dragons sit by the throne, Sansa and Jon return to Dragonstone.

He makes a promise to keep an eye on his brother, hopes that Daenerys will stay level headed herself and temper his impulses, and he furiously reprimands Rhaenys for the doubts she planted in his wife’s mind.

A couple of moons later, while his curious eyes are drifting over a letter from his father-in-law, Sansa enters the Chamber of the Painted Table.

“What is it?” she asks softly.

“A letter from your father,” he answers, his eyes still focused on Ned Stark’s elegant scrawl, “he says there’s some sort of threat from beyond the Wall. I’ll need to speak with Aegon.”

Sansa’s brows furrow, a look of concern flickering over her features, before she walks over to him.

“You’ll talk to Aegon,” she agrees, before gently taking the parchment from his hand and placing it on the table. His hands rest on his thighs, his expression curious as he looks up at her, “but for now, I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

She purses her lips before a smile breaks through and he _swears_ , he’s never seen her look like that before.

She slowly takes his hand and lays his palm flat against her belly.

His brow arches, his chest feeling tight.

He thinks he knows what she’s going to say, but he holds his breath anyway.

“I’m with child.”

The smile he gives her is blinding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn’t mind me making Rhaenys the (kind of) bad guy – I was going to make it Dany, but I think there’s enough of pitting her and Sansa against each other. Plus I think it’s interesting to imagine what Dany would be like in this alternate universe, without the trauma of exile and being bullied by Viserys. I think she’d be gentler. Also I think some of Rhaenys' resentment is easy to understand and sympathise with. She loves her mother and watched Rhaegar favour Jon because he reminded him of the woman he betrayed Elia for - it stands to reason she'd be a little bitter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and that you’re all keeping safe <3


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